


The Time We Left Behind Us

by scifishipper



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2010-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifishipper/pseuds/scifishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee goes to the memorial wall after Kara's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Time We Left Behind Us

**Author's Note:**

> This fic continues to explore Lee's reactions to Kara's death and is a loose continuation of my of my earlier fic In Grief. Inspiration for the fic came from [LJ]dianora2's summary of Jamie Bamber's opinion that Lee couldn't show his grief for Kara because he was not her husband. (Note that I've stretched out the time line and made minor changes for clarity, so it's not strictly canon.)  
> Beta: [LJ]cynicalshadows (thanks, bb!)

Lee walked slowly through the memorial hall, fingering the photograph in his pocket, wondering if today would be the day he'd say goodbye and tack Kara's picture among the dead. Thirty-seven days. It had been thirty-seven days since he'd watched her die, the tip of her aircraft bursting into flames and exploding into bright orange and white fireworks. Thirty-seven days ago his world ended and now he was meant somehow to go on without her.

He'd grieved before, for his brother, killed in a training accident and his mother and all of the rest of his family and friends killed, murdered, when the cylons attacked the Twelve Colonies. He'd grieved for them, lost and bereft, until his duties called him back to functioning. He pushed his pain into work, driving himself to the point of exhaustion, focusing on the smallest tasks, obsessing over pilot schedules, breaking himself down and building himself up again over time.

But this was different. Worse, he thought, pulling the photo out of his pocket. His mind alternated between blank numbness and searing pain and he stared ahead, only half seeing the dozens of photos tacked and taped together in a dreadful montage of loss. He was alone in the hall and tears stung his eyes. Over and over again, he fought them back, steeling himself for ordinary encounters, living in shocked wonder as he talked about the banal events of life. Death was a surreal experience for the living, chatting and eating and doing the small things seemed bizarre against the backdrop of her absence. But he did them, nonetheless, the daily rituals that carried him through and kept him in his place.

Because Lee Adama was not allowed to bare his full grief, not able to scream and howl and wail the depths of the despair he felt at her passing. That honor was reserved for her husband, Sam, teetering drunkenly on the wing of a viper, calling out to her, crying, until he fell into a sobbing mess onto the hangar deck. Lee was meant to grieve properly, in measure, as the CAG, the air group commander who'd lost a pilot, or as a soldier who'd lost a friend. His grief was not supposed to be the consuming loss of a secret lover, the gritty, twisting pain that made him struggle to remember how to breathe. Expectations weighed on him as always, and he rose to meet them, but frayed at the edges, the ever present watchers picking at the tendrils of his resolve, curious to see weakness there. Firm and hard-jawed he faced them, adhering to order and reason and duty until he thought he might explode like her ship in front of him, scattered into nothingness.

Sometimes he wished for it, a deep longing that filled him, crawling up his throat, needing to burst out of his mouth in a scream. But he had not been so lucky. He had lived all of these years and months and the thirty-seven days since her death, he had lived, propelled by duty and expectation while others failed to meet his eyes, wary of the snarling pain beneath the surface. Pity. Sometimes he saw pity in their eyes and shuddered, reviling the spectacle of death. His loss was his own, nothing he wanted to share, nothing that would bring him to breaking in front of those who depended on him. Grief, such a small horrible word, supplanting love and hope and joy until it withered away, spent and brittle. Grief was all he seemed to have now. And her picture, sliding smoothly in his hands, her smiling face staring up at him, waiting, asking him to put her where she belonged.

Time and time again he went to the wall, staring blindly at the pilots and friends and family that had been lost. _I want to go right there,_ next to Kat, she'd said. _A royal pain in the ass, but a hell of a stick to have on your wing._ Lee frowned, never imagining that he'd see her face among the dead. He wished, somehow, that the picture in his hand showed less joy, less youth and vigor, that somehow it could echo his pain and join him, knowing his grief.

At first, he'd been unable to go to the wall, afraid to see the empty space where her photo would reside. His guilt kept him away, the guilt he wrestled with, the words he'd spoken on the day she died. He'd meant to be a good leader, meant to help his pilot regain her confidence, but in reality, those were his father's words. _Everyone gets rattled sometimes._ He should have trusted his own instincts and ignored his father's advice. She said she didn't trust herself to fly and he ignored her. For as long as Kara had been flying, she'd never shown a moment of doubt. She faced flying like she faced life, head up and balls to the wall, pushing herself harder than anyone else.

But he hadn't listened; he'd turned a blind eye to the flicker of doubt and the fear in her face. He'd convinced her to fly that day, all as much as promised her that he would make sure everything was okay. But he couldn't reach across space, couldn't prevent her from diving into the maelstrom of clouds and gas and swirling debris, chasing a hallucination, and willingly plunging to her death. He couldn't reach inside her mind to make her trust him again. _Kara, you get back here_. Those words came too late and he heard her voice, faint on the comm. _Let me go, Lee._ And she was gone. Beyond his reach and his words and any more chances he might have had with her.

Regret stung and he turned away from the wall, his face blank and numb as he lowered his head to stare at her photo, yearning for her voice, forgiving him and releasing him from his guilt. But that voice would not come again and he would have to find his own way through the mires of pain and loss. There was no space for Kara on that wall today. That small opening could not be enough to contain her spirit and life and he could not place her there, confined and stuck, motionless and frozen.

Today was not the day he would say goodbye.


End file.
